


Hollywood Forever

by Anonymous



Category: Gemini (2017)
Genre: BFFs Become a Murder Squad, Casual Murder, F/F, Los Angeles, Loyalty, Post-Canon, Protectiveness, Quiz Questions, references to pre-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:35:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28851414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Questions about loyalty and murder(Inspired by Heather Anderson’s self-admitted obsession withSeventeenmagazine quizzes)
Relationships: Heather Anderson & Jill LaBeau, Heather Anderson/Tracy
Kudos: 1
Collections: Five Figure Fanwork Exchange 2020





	Hollywood Forever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kimaracretak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimaracretak/gifts).



_  
Quiz: When working under a world-famous celebrity, boundaries are important. A responsible personal assistant would NEVER do which of the following with their employer?:_

_A) Sleep in her bed  
B) Keep her "You’re Hired” voicemail on her phone and listen to it as a comfort  
C) Whisper “I love you” when she thinks she can’t hear her  
D) Cover up her past and future murders _

* * *

  


Jill never liked to admit how much she loved her job.

Working for someone like Heather would be just a sweet gig for some, but for Jill, it went much deeper than that.

Heather made her feel like she was the one in charge. Jill was her second, her protector, her memory bank. She made her feel like a friend. 

Even the small things didn’t go unnoticed, like how she complimented her favorite blue mini backpack and said her hair looked cute even though all she’d done was tie it in a five-second bun. She acted as though Jill’s embarrassing stories about boarding school in New Hampshire were every bit as juicy as the gossip from Heather's last A-list party. 

It was Heather who showed her where to buy her first TAP card, who took her around and showed her all the out-of-the-way neighborhoods with shrines and grottoes hidden in the Southern California hills. She was the one who let her in on where to find the quietest parts of the coastline where she could go to watch the waves and lose herself in her thoughts. 

Heather even drove her home that night when she’d been too out of it after a karaoke session.

Jill was trusted with discretion. Heather trusted her not to go blabbing about her love life to some blind item site and leak gossip to the press. It wasn’t as if there wasn’t a hungry demand for just that, what with her dating a major K-pop star laying low in LA while her girl group was on hiatus.

She had to keep some secrets, like Heather’s bouts of crippling self-doubt that got Jamie yelling on the phone or the fact that her main residence was a dreamy Moroccan-style villa, The Hummingbird Temple, in Laurel Canyon. 

Jill had told herself life would never go back to normal after Sierra. 

It felt wrong to feel such hatred toward a dead person, but Jill knew deep down how much Sierra had bothered her. Her Instagram page had since been deleted, but she remembered her posts, her obnoxious hashtags, how the girl had delved so deeply into Heather’s persona, she’d made her her entire world. It was all so superficial, so blind and thoughtless, yet Jill had been desperate to be rid of this girl who claimed to love Heather more than anyone. More than Jill did. 

She wasn’t prepared for the job, but Heather didn’t mind. An out-of-towner, there was so much she didn’t know, but her new boss never called her out for being slow. A personal assistant’s job description was the opposite of glamorous. No doubt, her old boarding school pals would be looking down their noses if they could see her now. But cruising in the Tesla with Heather riding shotgun, whether it was cruising down the boulevard at sunset or cursing the traffic on the daytime 405, Jill couldn’t imagine a place she would rather be. 

You could say that she wore many hats. On any given day, she was part secretary, part bodyguard, and part therapist, and usually more than one of those at the same time. She learned how to manage a shooting schedule and juggle Heather’s engagements in her handwritten pocket organizer - so high school - Heather had giggled in delight when she saw it, and for once didn’t feel like it made her look childish. She also developed a knack for when the press buzzards would descend (at the tail end of an important event or on any given day right after dinner), and she learned what it took to beat them off with a metaphorical stick. Though Heather had had years of experience dealing with them, their visits always seemed to take a toll, and it made Jill’s blood boil. As for the therapy, well, that was where the friendship part came in.

She could have made her job sound much sexier if she’d actually dared to flaunt how close the two of them had become. Heather Anderson was a household name, and it wasn’t an exaggeration to say that she had become nothing short of indispensable in her life. 

Jill wasn’t so naive as to be unaware that a lot of Hollywood celebrities had...issues. Whether it was anxiety or drugs or massively disastrous love lives, it was a world of terribly high strung people that were sorely in need of grounding. Maybe it was because she had been on her own for so long, or maybe it was just in her nature, but Heather had herself very well put-together by anyone’s standard. Anxieties were there, but nothing that had fully derailed her yet. She was meh on drugs, other than the occasional party pill, but those were few and far between, and she never did those with strangers. Her love life was the real pain in the ass, and it was a delicate dance she had to do in order to keep herself, her exes, and the press from dragging her down. Many people loved Heather, but when she loved them back, she had a terrible tendency to get herself hurt. Jill was always there to pick up the pieces. 

The job wasn’t what she thought it would be. It didn’t feel like work. Being a personal assistant meant her hours were all over the place, and on any given day she never knew what kind of people she would have to deal with on Heather’s behalf. Jill had never been a take-charge kind of person, but things changed once she had moved to LA and established herself as “one of the last few trustworthy people” as the actress herself had once put it. 

“These types are a fake as the smile in my Screen Actor’s Guild headshots.”

The thing was, Jill was not a people person. The whole “social leverage” thing did not so much as enter her mind when she applied for the position. She did not like making phone calls, did not like walking into the studio meeting room and throwing her weight around as best she couls, and certainly did not like making thinly-veiled threats to strangers when they were slow-rolling and it was clearly going to fuck up Heather’s assignment, okay well, maybe just a little bit on that last one. It was a constant game of defense, and she liked to think that she was gradually getting better and better at it. And as a side benefit: working for Heather had taught her how to tell lies without thinking twice. 

She was pleased to find that her salary netted enough to cover the rent for a reasonably roomy one-bedroom in an entirely decent apartment building. Even better, it was walking distance from a perfectly acceptable coffee shop. The two of them would eat there in the early morning hours sometimes, no need for Heather to be incognito. Among other things, she was pleased to find out that her employer was no food snob, and like her had an affinity for every kind of takeout under the sun in addition to diners that weren’t called Denny’s.

There were plenty of other fringe benefits. Heather was always generous with casually-dropped, “don’t mention it” sorts of gifts the Jill had never quite figured out how to say thank you for: extra dessert at their favorite restaurants, a Bialetti Moka pot, VIP Dodger tickets for when Jill’s family was in town and she wanted to show them around, and her favorite, the couch that had been the only non-Ikea piece of furniture to grace her bare apartment for the first six months since she first moved in. It was comfy as hell. 

“It just looked like something you needed,” she’d said with a sly smile on the day the moving people showed up with a surprise knock when they were standing around wondering what to do about her pathetically bare kitchen. That was Heather for you - as laid back as she was, Jill never lost the impression that the girl was always watching, reading her and getting to know her better than she even knew herself. Sometimes it freaked her out a little, like that time she was on her day off and found herself aimlessly walking around the Grove, among the tourists, feigning a shopping trip. A text came in from Heather, “Pick up a box of Sprinkles, will you?” she’d implored with a pouty face emoji. How had she known Jill was right there and that she’d been contemplating the same sweets? It was a little spooky. Kind of like she’d seemed all too aware of the .22 snubnose hidden in her kitchen drawer. 

Heather was more laid back than Jill could ever imagine herself being. In contrast, she got called a workaholic so often that it practically became a term of endearment. Jill thought the label was undeserved. She didn’t feel overworked, only worried and a bit concerned at times. But Heather told her she worked harder than anyone she’d ever met and that frankly, it freaked her out a little bit. She was so horrified when she refused the guest room in favor of the couch, her mind clearly rejecting the very idea of someone deliberately sabotaging their own sleep quality. Heather loved her beauty rest.

It had been the worst shock of her life to feel that she’d been torn from this earth, this person to whom she had become so tethered.

Flowers had been the first thing on her mind that day. That day she had wondered what flowers would be brought to Heather’s funeral. Fans would send them by the masses, she was sure. 

She would plant some flowers to remember her by, she thought on that day she believed her friend was dead. Backyard flowers, sidewalk flowers; all the memories of them came back to her as she thought of their journeys together. That LA didn’t have nearly enough of them was an opinion that she and Heather shared. 

Southern Californian backyards overflowed with bougainvillea, their fronts landscaped with drought resistant bird of paradise and lily of the nile. Trees filled with orange blossoms made the air smell sweet, and jacaranda drop stickiness and sweet pods the infuriated anyone who was foolish enough to park beneath them. 

“Make sure you don’t wait for me under the purple flowers,” Heather warned her on the first day she drove her out to where they were filming on-location. 

“You know how pissed Jamie will be if something fucks up the Tesla.” 

Jill had just smiled nervously with a half giggle. 

“Thanks for the tip.” It was just the start of all those little points of advice that helped make living in this weird traffic-clogged swath of urban sprawl livable for someone from the laid-back Pacific Northwest. 

The weather had thrown her off at first. She always felt dressed wrong in a place where the sun always shone and it was 89 degrees in January yet turned to near freezing at night.

“Never leave home without a jacket,” was another tip she always seemed to forget. Good thing she had figured out the surface street shortcut between her apartment complex and Heather’s villa, for the times when going back and getting things she forgot became a regular occurrence. 

Her boss never seemed bothered by the temperature, whether it was blazing hot or unseasonably chilly. Los Angeles was Heatherland, and she gloried in it like a queen.

Her fans sent her bouquets all the time, usually in some shade of violet since that time she’d offhandedly mentioned in an interview that it was her favorite color. Jill had loved bringing in armloads of purple roses and amethyst-hued stock and seeing her dramatically flip out before her face settled in a genuine contented smile. It was the little moments that counted. 

She had been all set in her mind with a mourning display of purple florals as she’d dazedly dragged herself from the crime scene. If it weren’t for Jamie, maybe she would have lost herself in it all, burying Heather before her thoughts could become rational again.

Every now and then she would think back to her day of the incident and retrace her steps. Her mind had been torn between mourning for Heather and doing everything she could to evade the ones who seemed to have it out for her. Her instincts had told her there were things to be done, but she’d been unsure of how to go about them, running frantically between what seemed like one trap into another. 

That night, as they were lying together in her bed, Heather asked her if she’d seen “Scream” lately. Looking back, it was like a warning, as if to say, “Get ready - for the next 48 hours you’re going to be living in a movie and not real life.” For Jill at least, it all felt as though horror film cliches had overtake reality. 

Another thing she didn’t like to talk about was how, at any given time, there were always two Heathers.

Normal Heather, Celebrity Heather.

Happy Heather, Sad Heather

Living Heather, Dead Heather

One Heather loathed the hypocrisies of Hollywood and venting to Jill every time she got the chance. The other Heather smiled for the camera and pretended her problems simply didn’t exist.

The thing about the two Heathers was, one of them hated the other. She could picture it in her mind. That night with Sierra, they two of them had faced off, the fan wearing her idol’s clouds- and rainbow-patterned fleece bathrobe, sleepshirt, and fuzzy slippers (Had she stolen them or did Heather put them on her?). She would have been standing there as a perfect imitation Heather, down to the replicated tattoo. Real Heather wouldn’t have been able to resist killing Fake Heather. It would have brought her joy. 

But the person that emerged from the killing was not the same Heather she’d always cherished, was it?

  


* * *

_  
Quiz: You’re Jamie Finnegan, and the secret to your success is the set of rules you’ve laid out for yourself. The first one you break is:_

_A) Never take no for an answer  
B) Always be ahead of the media cycle  
C) Let Heather be Heather  
D) Don’t let Jill find out more than you want her to know. _

  


* * *

  


Working for Jamie Finnegan could be fun, but more often than not, Jill found it exasperating.

Women in the industry with real power were rare, and those that had some guarded theirs jealously. Jamie was not as in your face as some, but her track record was one of the best in Hollywood. Heather Anderson was her latest pet project, and over the last three years, things had been going swimmingly. She kept the talent happy, and the jobs continued to roll in. Jamie was well-informed about the backroom deals and the casting couch horrors, and she made sure every actor she worked with was steered well away from getting involved in such traps. For that much, Jill had to respect her. So far, Heather had gotten two blockbusters, a quiet indie gig that had been a sleeper hit on the independent film circuit, and even a major beauty company ambassadorship out of their working relationship. Finnegan, Harper, and Murphy was an agency that could flex some muscle in this industry. If anything else, working with Jamie was going to be an inevitable fact of her life as Heather’s star was still on the rise. 

Outside of Jamie’s vicinity, Heather was the one who was curious about new and daring projects. She often questioned Jill about what she’d been hearing through the entertainment industry grapevine.

“What about that pilot you told me about, the one with the sexy vampire lawyers? 

“You can forget about that.” Remember, Jamie doesn’t want you to do television. She thinks it’ll diminish your marketability.

Yeah? Well, I don’t care what she thinks. Tell me what you think, Jill. 

“Heather, I think you should do whatever makes you happy.”

She had always had a hard time getting on with Heather’s people. Maybe it was because she wasn’t a native. No one in her circle besides Heather herself had actually been born in Los Angeles, but it seemed as though she alone stood out among the crowd. The girl from Rose City was a non-native species.

Jamie had an affinity for all the old traditional hot spots. She was something of an expert on places that were hip in the 80s and treated Yamashiro like her own personal command center. It wasn’t surprising. They view up there could make anyone feel like going on a power trip. You could find her there at least a couple of times a month, and sometimes, when Heather felt like showing up and coming along, attending those meetings with her were almost fun. Honestly, the best part was all the Asahi and all the iniari and California rolls she could eat. The meetings were tense, and Jill often caught herself struggling to get it away from it all, looking away, at the koi pond or at the view, for any excuse not to feel like she was just a dumb rookie getting dressed down by a seasoned veteran. 

For their latest meeting, Heather begged off of coming along, saying she wasn’t ready to face Jamie yet after all that had happened. She urged Jill not to take any shit from her, and thanked her with hugs and plaudits of her bravery. So Jill, Heather’s shield, went off again into the breach, to take some lashings from the woman she considered her archnemesis in Heatherworld. 

They met up at Tonga Hut this time: Jill’s territory, not Jamie’s. The women stared each other down as they waited for their drinks to arrive: a Mojave Punch for Jill and a Mai Tai for Jamie.

During their regular meetups, Jamie liked to do most of the talking. She did it partly to show authority and partly to show off for all the other agents that were eating nearby and were surely listening in. It was one of the reasons why she loved having her meeting in heavily trafficked open-air spaces like this. Jill’s style was entirely different. For her, the ideal business meetup would be held in the back of a discreet, deliberately unstylish and kitschy place like the Tonga Hut while everyone involved politely sipped on vividly colored fruity drinks decorated with mini parasols. But then what would she know, being just a transplant?

If Jill was the one thinking of Heather’s present, then Jamie was the one always looking out for the future. She remembered how mad she’d been when Heather announced she wanted to back out.

“Do you know how bad this fucks me?” she’d yelled over the phone. The rage had been over the top for her, almost...performative. 

“You’re almost as good an actress as Heather,” Jill said after she took her first sip of hibiscus-spiced rum.

By now, Jill had turned into the kind of person that suspected everyone and everything. There were no coincidences in the case of Heather’s death and reemergence, and her agent was just one more piece of the puzzle.

The day of the incident, she’d taken her seat at LA’s historic hillside restaurant with a look of determination and met Jamie head-on. 

“I need you to issue a statement,” she’d urged again and again. 

“I literally can’t,” Jill had answered, more assertive than she’d ever been with her much more powerful associate. Jamie had finally backed off, and to be honest she was quite surprised that she had. Why had she been so insistent in the first place. What benefit was there to making sure Heather was dead in the public eye as soon as possible?

Now she thought she might have the answer to that question. 

Heather had become more and more distraught over the last six months. Ever since she’d signed to work with Greg on that new movie of his. The screenplay was said to be sizzling, and everyone was counting on her to make it into another smash hit. Yet every script reading and every set visit seemed to drain a bit of Heather’s vitality. Her popularity was higher than ever but now it was like she was being circled by hungry wolves looking for a change to jump at her next mistake.

“I can’t afford to fuck up this film,” she’d whimpered one day into Jill’s shoulder, after a day where they’d both gotten into a shouting match with Greg over whether or not her character should be killed off in the third act or live to see the finale. 

“He hates me...” she’d muttered bitterly.

“No he doesn’t! He’s just difficult.” Jill had hated her own lie. 

At least the fans had her back, but judging by Heather’s reaction, the trending of #HeartHeather was not having the desired effect of boosting her signal and making her incandescently happy.

“I wish they’d just...stop.” Jill had just barely been able to catch her words over the buzz of the radio on a rare rainy night when they were stuck in traffic on the intersection leading out of downtown.

Had that Sierra girl been a stalker that went too far, or was she just a bit of bait in some vast, dark game? The alternative answer was something she was scared to entertain. Jamie must have known. With thirty five years in the business, she’d seen first hand all the sort of things desperate actresses did when they were cornered.

It had taken her far too long to realize it, but Sierra’s death had been a sacrifice, not a slaughter.

Jamie was hardened by working in an industry surrounded by beautiful vicious people who would never hesitate to rip the juiciest roles right out from under her best asset. 

When she looked at Jill, she seemed to be saying, “Oh, there’s so much I could show you about this world. If only you weren’t so stubborn.”

She thought back to that time Heather had confided in her about her agent’s involvement.

“You don’t have to worry about Jamie.”

“Why? What does Jamie have to do with this?”

Heather didn’t meet her eyes, instead staring fixedly at the melting cubes of ice in her glass. 

She was the one who was willing to spin Heather’s success into a bitterly cynical publicity stunt. 

“I like the new director we’ve got for this project, she stated matter-of-factly. Got some great ideas. She told me: ‘Oh, it’ll be like _Selena_ ’.“

Jill wanted to remind her that in that movie, the assistant was one guilty, not a crazy rando fan, but she kept her mouth shut. 

“It will be a challenging film to produce,” Jamie said matter-of-factly, as if it was of no consequence that she was sweeping someone’s murder case completely under the rug, “but I think we can manage. Jill, I think it would be best if you stay close to Heather. Do what you do. I know you’re good at your job, and she’ll need an anchor if we’re going to take on a project this big.” 

She should have known that Jamie was in on it.

She wouldn’t stop until Heather had a case of statuettes and a star on the walk of fame. 

“Call me if you ever need anything,” she’d said as she gave her a knowing look. 

For Heather and Jill, true understanding had started with a closed fist to the jawline. 

Jill could read Heather, but Heather could also read Jill. 

She’d known she was angry, probably angrier than she’d ever been in her entire life. There were so many targets for it, the media, the police, the studio exces and their bullshit, but the kicker was that Heather herself was finally in the crosshairs. 

“Am I under arrest?” she’d asked Detective Ahn, yet all she could think of was Heather.

“Not yet,” he’d responded. The agony those words had put her through were paid back in full by the sight of Heather, her principal, her responsibility and best friend, taking it on the chin in apology. She’d fallen back on the wood-chip covered yard and stared up at the sky as if searching for absolution, as if she felt she had more to offer Jill in remorse.

“That didn’t hurt at all.” Heather was entirely too sprightly for a person who had just shot someone dead. “Want to hit me again? I know I deserve it.” Jill refused to drag it out any further. She’d offered her hand, and Heather took it when the two of them walked back to the cabin and made ready to descend the mountain and face society again. 

As she drove, Jill was acutely aware of the feeling of Heather’s slender arms wrapped tight around her waist, holding on for dear life as they hugged the turns. In that moment, the two of them were left alone against the world. If she were someone else, she would have changed course once they hit the main thoroughfare, get on the 10 and head east and out of the city. They could have gone to Vegas or Arizona or hell anywhere at all besides the town that had driven Heather to desperation. But as she’d learned over the last 24 hours, Jill knew she would not succeed if she tried to run - reality would eventually catch up to her. Her only option was to stand and fight, not only for her own sake but for Heather’s. 

The consequences of taking Sierra’s life were going to have to be dealt with, and once again Jill had a job to do. It was not as bad as bad could be. There had been a rash of missteps from everyone involved, and there was probably going to be some leeway in directing how this all got reported and wrapped into Heather’s life story. The notoriety surrounding the incident was like dynamite, and it was only a matter of controlling when and where it was going to explode. If Jill had anything to say about it, it was going to be in Heather’s favor. 

Detective Ahn had started to show up to her live events, looking sad and sober. Jill could tell it killed him inside to know how badly his team had botched his case and was refusing to go down with them. 

They had to be the ones to make the first move. Jill got the interview locked down as soon as they made it back to the city. The world wanted to see Hollywood’s new murderer-starlet, and she was going to make sure it was on their terms. 

The reporter she’d called in was well-established, one of Jamie’s old contacts. She wasn't going to make it a puff piece, but as she assured Jill, she was invested in making this a dialogue and not an indictment of Heather and her actions. The dead girl was a story thread in the tapestry of something much bigger, something pervasive in Hollywood and in all places where the famous were confronted with the consequences of their own celebrity. Rest in peace to whoever found themselves entangled in it. 

They buried Sierra in a quiet private service at a memorial park far outside of the Los Angeles city limits. It was better that way. For all the people that couldn’t stand Heather now, there were infinitely more who would be tearing up the grave of some nobody who’d dared to threaten their favorite movie star. Jill read it in the news and advised Heather not to be in the public eye that day. Even a week after the incident, she could only think of her as “that pushy fan” and not “that pushy fan who tried to kill Heather and wound up dead on the floor instead.”

The details of the case were still in a muddle. LAPD was still smarting from their mishandling of the body identification. Even TMZ was stepping back, not wanting to get themselves embroiled in something so sensitive after all the shit they’d stirred up in the past. Jamie had assured her over the phone that she was ready with the lawsuits for if and when the harassment came along. Jill hoped it would never come to that, and she was hoping that the interview would go a long way in defusing the bomb Heather had planted smack in the middle of the prime of her acting career.

The public would paint her as a monster or hail her as a survivor who saved her own life from someone too obsessed to be reasoned with. Jill had her lines all worked out. Heather was not crazy. She was fearful and stressed and had simply been pushed to the brink. She had had no choice but to shoot.

She chose the interview venue to bring peace to the table. Floor to ceiling windows let in the natural light, like a morning after following a drunken, debauched night. Jill needed everyone to see that Heather had nothing to hide. The two of them went dressed “full business mode”, a look they had laughed about together in the comforting privacy of Heather’s walk-in closet. With those suit jackets and their hair tied back, Heather’s in a low ponytail and Jill’s in a tight bun, neater than her usual, they looked more like financial advisors than Hollywood power players. 

But the real star was Heather. When she was fully realizing her potential, the girl could light up the set with her stage presence. With her post-Sierra statement she had to strike a very different balance: one that was humbled but resigned. She’d pulled it off so well, stating the events succinctly: she broke in, she attacked, I shot because I was scared for my life - and letting the interviewer echo her statements with level-headed calm. There was no sobbing or overwrought emotional display. Heather was firm, even when the penultimate, most damning question was asked.

“This girl, was she really a threat that required all five of those shots? All she had on was a bathrobe and slippers. Was there really a need to kill her?”

“I had no choice,” she stated firmly. Cut to the pre-produced segment explaining the circumstances of the attack. Sierra broke in, triggering the alarm that Jill thought was only a coyote. She’d climbed over the fence and broken in through the sliding door in the back that had been left unlocked. Then she’d raided Heather’s bedroom, stealing a pajama set and sandals that she had somehow discerned were Heather’s favorites. She made her way to the bedroom and tried to strangle Heather in her sleep.  
“You must have been scared for your life.” The interviewer handed her an opening to once again assert the obvious conclusion. Sierra was dangerous. She had to die so that Heather could live.

Even Detective Ahn’s surprise appearance hadn’t been enough to shake her composure. As Jill watched, she felt that she’d never been more proud of her. 

So much of their relationship began to change as soon as the interview went live. Jill had always felt valued and cherished, but now she was nothing short of vital. She was the keeper of Heather’s secrets now, in addition to being her guide and source of comfort. The eyes of the world had always been on her friend, but post-Sierra the stakes were so much higher. All the conspiracies, the suspicions and the lies, it would all come crashing down on Heather like a tidal wave, threatening to destroy her career at every turn (Did anyone really care _why_ that girl had to die? No. They were just eager to see Heather’s star come crashing down to earth).

Jill had promised she’d protect Heather, even in her sleep. She hadn’t realized it meant she had to be ready to protect her from herself. Now, though, she was ready for the onslaught. 

* * *

_  
Quiz: Heather Anderson’s most convincing portrayal was:_

_A) The tragic enchantress in that fantasy period drama set in the 1920s  
B) The runaway mutant who has to hide her wings  
C) The intrepid survivor journeying through a desert wasteland  
D) The undaunted initiate that always spoke her mind in that dystopian teen lit adaptation  
E) The down-to-earth Hollywood actress who wouldn’t hurt a soul_

  


* * *

  


People said that Heather Anderson never made a bad movie. As Jamie would put it, she had an image to uphold.

Heather’s history in Hollywood was a long and winding story, involving famous A-lister parents and a childhood surrounded by people who wanted nothing more than to use her for their own gain.

She had always loved the spotlight, and the spotlight loved her. It was not a question of mere stage presence, but rather when Heather had something to say, you always heard it. When she moved, you couldn’t take her eyes away. Jill had seen those old tapes of her high school theater club plays. Even then she’d been a star. 

Heather wanted to increase her range as an actress, and Jamie had stepped up to the challenge, seeking roles that showed off her sensitivity and also her strength. Jill loved looking over her portfolio and seeing all the characters she had embraced over the years. 

The first page showed Heather dressed in wine red satin, her hemline long and floaty, her hair crimped prettily in dramatic finger waves. It was a roaring twenties ensemble for a set that featured gold furnishings, shady characters, and plenty of car chases. It was the the first movie they’d worked on together, and Jill still cherished the time she taken her off the lot, when they’d head out for drinks together and Heather would talk about the takes she had on the characters, the one she kept for herself and not for the on-camera interviews. 

“This girl can do magic,” she’d said as she explained her role to Jill. “She can’t tell anyone her secrets, and she’s holding it all in. It hurts her.” The love interest wants to help her but he doesn’t know how. The leading man, played by some guy who looked like Eddie Redmayne, seemed nice enough, but Heather told her she thought he was a bit naive. For some reason, that made Jill smile. 

Heather loved action movies, and she was thrilled the day she landed her first stunt-heavy gig: a mutant girl who had to hide her wings. There were troubles on the set, a lot of egos clashing and making a scene when Heather just wanted to practice her lines. Jill had to hold her own breath when she helped to zip up the skintight suit that made up her costume. 

“Wanna get in shape...” Heather muttered as the zipper finally made it to the top. 

They made a group effort out of it. Jogs around the block at 5:00 am, smoothies for brunch and yoga in the afternoon. They cut back on the donuts but not the Friday night drinks. Fitness was not Jill’s thing at all, but she was willing to make the sacrifice for Heather. By the end of four months, they were both more toned than they’d ever been, and the director finally allowed Heather to do her own stunts. It was a win-win situation. Somehow, Jill came to realize that she wasn’t with Heather for the money or the connection to fame. She simply made her feel like a better person when they were together, smarter, braver, and more capable. When the movie ended up being a blockbuster hit, Jill couldn’t help but feel smug. Heather had made it, and she had helped, and it had truly meant something. 

There was a photo of them together on the red carpet. The magazines hadn’t bothered publishing in, not with Jill’s face, but every now and then she would pull it up on her phone. It was a comforting reminder of what they could accomplish together. 

The third photo in the album was a black and white, giving off a noir detective vibe. Heather was dressed glamorously with silver revolver cocked in her hand, shooting at the viewer. You could practically smell the gunsmoke. 

The critics loved her superheroine role so much, it was only a matter of time before something similar got shopped around and Heather was begged to come onboard. This time they wanted her to be an assassin. Actress by day, hitwoman by night. 

“You’d have to pay me not to do it.” she’d said gleefully as she folded the script and gave Jill a smile. It was their partnership that had made it all happen, and now Heather was going to be able to take on the role of her dreams. The film wasn’t as commercially successful as her previous work, but the reaction from the critics and fans was that of universal acclaim. Heather was on the rise, and if she could keep up the momentum, only the sky was the limit.

“What’s next on the to do list?” Jill had asked her when Heather grabbed her hand for support, exiting the star-studded gala that was held to honor the film’s premier. 

Some day, one day, if it was what Heather truly wanted, then she would make it happen.

From the canyons of Utah where they climbed the rocks and learned from the on-set armorer how to shoot pistols, to the dazzling lights of Tokyo where Heather strode proudly through the dazzling lights as they filmed her in a perfume commercial, Jill would follow her anywhere this life would take her. 

  


* * *

  


It came as a given that the making of a True Hollywood Story came with a boatload of potential minefields. There were legal issues, personnel issues, and most of all there were going to be Heather issues. Jill felt she could smooth them over as best she could. 

The legal stuff Jamie could handle. After all of her suspicions about Sierra, she wasn’t sure she could say she trusted the woman’s judgement in the context of her own safety. There had always been this strange sort of aura around their relationship like, “We’re in this together to take of Heather, but make sure you know that I will stab in the back at a moment’s notice.” Whatever Jamie was cooking up behind the scenes, she wanted no part of it. Plausible deniability was a luxury she was going to keep for herself.

Heather had said it as a joke once:

“You know what? It’ll be so great to have the four of us working together. Tracy will bring the booze, Jamie will bring the bail money, and I-,” She smirked, and Jill could hear that over exaggerated tone in her voice that signaled she wasn’t being all that serious.

“I’ll bring the bad decisions.”

She could never say it, but it always bothered her that out of all the people in Heather’s circle, the one that was the nicest to her was Tracy. She was never sure if it was genuine or if there was a hidden hatred just beneath the surface. Did she mind her sleeping in the same bed as her girlfriend, ostensibly as just a friend? 

In Koreatown she’d noticed the posters advertising 4U’s heartbreak tour to promote their latest album “tea, yes. you, maybe.” In her wired state, it was as if she was trying to escape herself as much as the situation closing in on her, and her instincts had told her to become someone else, someone like Tracy. After the dust had settled, she’d donated the new outfit she’d bought but kept the blonde dye job.

Tracy had a special kind of “It-Girl” quality. This had helped her score her first gig in the K-pop industry, at least according to that trash fan magazine Jill had found herself browsing once. It caught the eye, made people who met her want to search beneath the surface. It may have been the reason she was such a private person and tended to spend so much of her time hidden away from the world in her glassy villa in Coldwater Canyon. When Heather brought her along to visit, Jill always felt taken aback by how modern and sleek her entire being was, how even the album art print on her wall featuring her own image seemed not vain but bold. Jill wished she could hate Tracy, she really did, but their hostess was always patient and chill and attentive to Heather’s every mood and whim. Even in their fun moments, like when they belted out songs together at Star Karaoke, Jill held onto the uncertainties hidden in her heart. What was Heather truly thinking as she sat there watching them and sipping her blackberry makgeolli? 

Even Tracy’s bike was beautifully maintained and coordinated with a full rack of on-trend leathers in her home’s spotless garage. Heather loved living in beautiful places. She belonged with the beautiful people. 

When she let Heather ride the bike, Tracy had been impressed. 

“Not bad, amateur,” she’d told her with a gentle slug in the shoulder, her tone suggesting that Jill had been too modest in her assessment of her own skill level. 

“When are you gonna get a bike of your own so we can race sometime, huh?” Jill almost blush. Racing against Tracy while Heather watched. It could be embarrassing. It could be a way for her to win Hea…

It could be fun.

“I’ll consider it,” she’d answered with a cryptic smile. When she drove Heather home that day she took special care to analyze the curves of the canyon, imagining herself on her own slicing through the winding roads like a rebel.

She had half expected Sky9 to be hanging on her tail that night. She was lucky enough they hadn’t called out the big guns and had her plastered all over the evening news. And Tracy had been unbelievably understanding when she’d reclaimed her stolen bike from them. What a saint. Jill had once again felt so...diminutive by comparison. Tracy was the pop star, former leader of 4U and an international celebrity. Jill was an underemployed producer wannabe who had never had a break. Was there any use even comparing them? Surely there was a logic behind dying her hair blonde when she saw that picture of Tracy hanging on the wall, as if challenging her to a game of “Bleached Blonde vs Bleached Blonde: Who Wore It Better.” Of course, Heather would be the judge of that particular competition. In her subconscious, she both longed for and dreaded what would happen if the two of them were weighed against each other in her heart. 

She reminded herself that the happiest moment of her life was when she felt Heather’s forehead pressed tight against her shoulder as they zoomed down the mountain together on Tracy’s stolen Kawasaki. 

  


* * *

_  
Quiz: What’s the best thing about being Heather Anderson?_

_A) The adoring fans  
B) Being the face of Yves Saint Laurent’s latest fragrance line  
C) The fact that name-dropping you is an all-access pass to everything LA has to offer  
D) Your assistant knows she’s working for a murderer, and she couldn’t give less of a fuck_

  


* * *

  


The call came as a surprise, giving her a start as she took out her phone and checked the name on the display. Jill had thought she would never hear from him again. 

“How was Edinburgh?” 

“Don’t try to be cute.” Greg’s voice sounded impatient. 

Jill looked up and caught Heather’s gaze on her. She was huddled on the settee, television droning on in front of her. Better take this outside. Jill gave a quick nod as she walked out the door and closed it behind her. 

She took a seat on the front steps, the ones with the delicate blue and white tilework that she couldn’t help but stop to admire every time she brought Heather home.

“So, Greg, it’s been a while. Is there uh, something I can help you with?” 

“Yeah, you can start by getting the hell away from that fucking lunatic you’re working for.”

“Wh-, what are you talking about?” Jill tried to make her voice sound neutral.  
“You know exactly what I mean. Heather’s crazy. Like, psycho murderer crazy, and now everybody knows it.”

She stiffened as she felt her blood turn to ice.

“That’s pretty rich, coming from some who said he wanted to kill her not so long ago.” 

He cursed loudly into the mic, and she jerked the phone away reflexively. 

“Who fucking said that? Jamie? Listen Jill, that woman is a gaslighter extraordinaire and you’ve got to watch out for her just as much as Heather. Got it?”

“Uh-huh. Go on.” Jill couldn’t help but roll her eyes.

Greg often told the people he worked with that they didn’t deserve him. Jill agreed with him entirely, but for very different reasons than what he had had in mind.

The man had a reputation for being a smart director with a great sense of humor and terrific eye for his talent. For a while, Jill could believe it. His previous film was an indie hit, and the jokes had actually been kind of a riot. She and Heather had sat on her couch together and watched it before she’d decided to take the job. Viewed with half a bottle of wine between them, it looked like a masterpiece.

“All right, sign me up!” Heather had announced from the cushions, toasting the air with her empty glass.

The funny thing was, Greg used to be a pretty decent guy. He definitely had talent as a director - the industry had recognized as much if the little row of trophies on his mantle was anything to go by- and working with him wasn’t bad as long as you didn’t get on his bad side. He’d had other redeeming qualities too, like the ability to give a scathing retort every now and then along with a good taste in restaurants. By all accounts, things really were going well in their pre-production meetings.

All that started to change once they got underway with principal photography. Suddenly there were arguments and personality clashes, with the bulk of the blame being settled on the shoulders of the leading lady. She heard what the crew was muttering as they walked off the set.  
Some called Heather a diva. Some called Greg an ass.

“Do you even know what we fought over?”

“I-,”

“From day one, her delivery was shit.” Greg didn’t bother listening for a response before cutting in. “I told her she had to shake it off. Every shot had her with this ‘dead behind the eyes’ look, like she forgot how to act. It was a goddamn horror movie! She was supposed to be scream queening her way through the whole scene. It was like she was trying to ruin everything on purpose. Then she storms off in a fit and a couple nights later someone ends up dead.”

Jill remembered, like she did with all the things Heather confided. 

“I can’t do this,” she’d muttered as she sipped her water bottle by Jill’s car during a sound check, voice wavering, “All of this. I fucking can’t.” 

Jill had tried to be encouraging. _Just give it one more shot. C’mon. You know how Greg gets._ Heather had been upset, but clearly she’d underestimated just how much. Her misery had been so intense that even Greg had been allowed to see it. 

“What I’m trying to say is,” his droning voice interrupted her thoughts. “Get. Out. Of. There. I know you two have this whole ‘undying devotion’ thing going on, but you have to face the facts. That girl was just the beginning. Self-defense? Give me a break. Your boss is a homicidal maniac.”

“Greg, now you’re the one sounding crazy,” she barked. Why was she feeling so flustered?

“Jill,” Greg’s voice was softer now, almost apologetic. “I only took the time to call because I know you’re a smart, decent girl. You need to leave before you get hurt.” 

Jill remained silent. She was no less upset, but her mind was whirling. She remembered anger and yelling... a guy who’d called Heather a pussy and a snake. Then she remembered how he’d let her out the back door after throwing shade at her outfit, how he hadn’t turned her in even though he could have. 

“Listen to me, Jill!” Greg was shouting again. “You have to snap out of it! There’s more to life than being Heather’s chorewhore.” The word made her bristle. People had many different ways of framing her relationship with Heather, most of which she hated: babysitter, handler, emotional crutch. This was a new low.

“God...Greg, you can be such a fucking asshole.” Jill grit her teeth as she hung up and put down the phone. She hugged her knees and put her head down, ignoring the vibrations from the call back and willing herself to tamp down the feelings of bitterness and anger that burst in her chest.

After three more attempts, he finally stopped trying to reach her. 

“What was that all about?” Heather’s voice was nonchalant as she walked back into the house. 

Jill just shrugged. 

“Nothing really. Greg just wanted to catch up, is all.” They dropped the subject after that. The past was in the past.

She caught the headline in the Times as she sipped her morning coffee. 

_Acclaimed Director Found Dead In Home_

Jill felt numb as she read the article.

The accompanying photo was a flattering faceshot that had almost certainly been taken for a pressbook. His cause of death was described in grisly detail. Someone had broken in while he slept, and apparently they’d improvised a murder weapon. Greg’s skull had been bashed in with his own Independent Spirit award. They included a shot of the statuette that showed the dried blood caked on its wings and on the molded shoestrings that wound along the base. There was no picture of his corpse. 

Once she finished, she had only one thought. _Heather_.

She ran down the hallway and burst into her bedroom. 

Heather had made no attempt to hide herself. Clad only in her underwear, she lay flat on the bed with arms outstretched, a euphoric expression on her face. The morning sunlight streaming in from the window gave her an almost angelic look. 

“You’re not mad at me, are you?”

Jill didn’t answer. Her eyes took in the sight of the stuffed plastic bag at the foot of the bed, and she felt a moment of deja vu when she realized it was filled with Heather’s bloody clothes. There was also one other familiar object...

“Did you know he sleeps with that thing?”

The blue stuffed octopus was almost unrecognizable under all the blood it had soaked up.

It was then that she finally broke.

“How could you...” Heather shot up from the bed and leaned over to Jill, wrapping her arms around her. She couldn’t hide the shudder of fear that ran through her as she was pulled down onto the comforter to rest beside her. 

“Greg was trying to make you hate me.” Heather murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “He was trying to convince you to _leave_.” Jill didn’t turn to look, but she could hear the sob in her words. 

Heather adjusted them to lie more comfortably before wrapping an arm over Jill’s, covering the back of her hand with her own. This was what Greg had tried to warn her about, wasn’t it? 

Her breathing was shallow as she felt Heather spoon against her back, the satin of her bra pressing against the thin fabric of her blouse. 

“Stay with me, Jill. I need you.” They lay there together in silence. Jill took in the sensation of Heather’s warmth and revelled in the orange blossom and vanilla scent of her signature fragrance. 

“You said you would protect me.” The lilt in Heather’s voice was hypnotic. “I just wanted to try protecting you instead.”

Jill wasn’t sure if she actually did press a feather-light kiss to her neck or if she’d just imagined it. 

Fuck Greg. He’d never even paid her back for those appetizers.

* * *

_  
Quiz: Stan is one of LA’s most dogged but least respected paparazzo. On Friday night, he is going to:_

_A) Spend an early night in  
B) Finish off his latest hit piece on Heather Anderson  
C) Stalk Tracy Kim on her way home from the recording studio  
D) Die_

* * *

  


Stan was a nightmare insect of a paparazzi guy, even by Jill’s very loose standards. He seemed to have a particular obsession with Heather, and for that reason she kept his firm on speed dial to inform them of his many transgressions and reiterate her intent to sue.

Unfortunately, so-called reports like Stan didn’t give up easily. Even TMZ found him too obnoxious to keep on their staff. But he was persistent, following Heather to her favorite eating spots, her shoots, and wherever she went. Jill was amazed he hadn’t gotten the Sierra treatment sooner. 

Out of all the journalists and all the movie industry people they knew, Stan was the only one who wouldn’t let go of the suspicious (totally ridiculous) idea that the dead fan in Heather’s mansion was evidence of something other than a brave actress fighting off a murderous stalker. Jamie’s lawyers and endless calls to have him fired were not enough to shut him up. Jill suspected he was the one who sent Detective Ahn over to their interview. 

“Heather Anderson is a murderer!” Jill picked up the voicemail on Heather’s phone, and the rage in his voice sent a chill down her spine. “I know it was her. It was Heather. I bet her girlfriend was in on it, too.”

He was always a harasser and a creep, but now he’d gotten too close. Jill held her head in her hands, wondering what to do.

Dealing with Stan would have been a lot easier if she thought Heather was innocent. 

Sierra was dead. Greg was dead. Both had pushed heather too far, and look what had happened to them.

She picked up her own phone and called Stan to see 

“Where’s Heather? You know I’m gonna go to the cops with this? This is too big to keep a secret, you know. I know she killed that girl, and now that director’s dead, too. C’mon Jill,” even his voice sounded greasy.

“You know you don’t wanna work for that crazy bitch.”

It was never a question of right or wrong. Heather was just clearing out the debris that marred the landscape of her life. Jill could forgive that. She could empathize. 

Stan had to go. 

* * *

  


Stan knew he was never destined for the heights of fame in the journalistic world. He belonged in the shadows, and kept to them, venturing out only when a likely lead presented himself.

He was skeptical about the tip at first, but he knew he couldn’t miss out on crashing this party, not if Heather was going to make an appearance. He wasn’t going to let this one go. His Heather stories were sure to make him bank. Before it was just his clickbait articles with grainy photos of her sucking face with that K-pop skank. But now he knew he was onto something - that assistant of hers had plenty to hide. 

On his way up to the Hollywood Hills, he could have sworn he could see a silver Benz tailing him, weaving out of sight every now and then when he tried to shake them off. They disappeared by the time he made it to his destination, an off street just a few blocks away from the main venue, a place where he could park and sneak around the perimeter unnoticed to take a few photos.

From a distance, he saw that the party was surprisingly laid-back with loose security. The trees were adorned with lights, and the guests were chatting eagerly amongst themselves around the pool. After he took his initial snaps, he noticed a sidegate where he could slip in to get a closer look. No one stopped him. And there, he could spot Heather from the back, gabbing with some D-listers. He took a few photos and then put his camera aside. He thought about the article he was going to write: “Last Hurrah Before Prison” was the title he was considering. 

One of the staff members seemed like a newbie. They offered him a drink as though he was just another party guest. Stan took it gratefully, downing it in one gulp.

A half hour passed, and he began to feel strange, his body growing heavy. He sat down on the grass and tried to find his thoughts, but his head just kept spinning. Where had all the people gone? It seemed that the guests had mostly cleared out although the night had hardly gotten started. All the while, his limbs began to feel more and more rigid. 

He was so out of it that by the time someone hoisted him up and threw him in the pool, he couldn’t make a move to stop them.

Someone was holding him down under the water. His limbs felt like lead, and he could scarcely even move his neck. He opened his eyes and tried to look up through the water. He could make out the heads of a couple - two women? - looking down at him. It was strange; he had made an entire career out of staring at starlets through the telescopic lens of his camera: their bodies and unguarded faces, all their points of vulnerability. Now they were staring at him. Paralysis had taken over. He couldn’t even open his mouth to ask for help, nor could he hear over the muffling of the water in his ears. 

If he’d still had control over his sense, he would have noticed Heather standing over him waving and whispering, “Bye bye, Stan.”

  


* * *

  


The three of them watched his body bob up and down in the placid, azure-hued saltwater pool.

Jill said nothing as she paused to catch her breath while she toweled off the water that had splashed all over her arms and front. 

Tracy gave her a hug. Heather gave her a kiss. In the end, she had to thank Jamie. When she ended up calling for help: the empty house, the discreet guests, the detailed explanation of all the security blindspots, she had to admit that she had more than delivered.  
_  
_

* * *

_  
Quiz: You are Detective Edward Ahn. There were a few missteps in the Heather Anderson murder investigation. Which was the one that made Jill LaBeau hate you the most?_

_A) Getting way too chummy way too fast  
B) Implying her job was beneath her  
C) Insisting on buying her coffee she didn’t want  
D) Suggest she’d sooner kill Heather than let her go (and not be entirely wrong) _

  


* * *

  


Detective Ahn had said the case was closed, but Jill could spot an unfulfilled yearning a mile away. He was probably disappointed that all his tactics had failed. “Well-meaning and slightly clueless” was a front he’d tried his best to pull off, but Jill had eluded his investigation at every turn, and for that she was mightily proud of herself. But had she and Heather made themselves a new enemy? She could tell from the look on Ahn’s eyes that he felt cheated, as if he knew Heather must still be guilty, he just couldn’t prove it yet. Jill would have to watch her back. Or rather, both their backs. 

She had always had a bit of a grudge against the detective. Ever since that line he’d spouted “You know actresses...I’ve heard stories, you know...” acting as if he knew Heather at all. That fall into dickishness had been a fast descent, and it was what had made Jill clam up immediately. In theory she was willing to cooperate with the investigation, but she could see that if they could turn Heather into a narrative, they would. She couldn’t allow that to happen. 

“Most of these interviews end up on the cutting room floor.” Did that mean he expected them to try to hide something? It was clearly one of those “I’ve got my eye on you” kind of bullshit statements. He probably expected her to have him escorted out, but she had been happy to let him watch. Go ahead and let him have his suspicions. He would be proven wrong in the end. People were always wrong about Heather.

The scene had been cleaned up much faster than Jill had expected. A girl was dead, and Heather had fled the scene, yet somehow the press was being kept at bay. She supposed she could thank Jamie for that. There should have been a storm of media fire surrounding the event, but it seemed, save for the more obnoxious ones, people were staying clear of Heather Anderson, as if there was some greater wrath they feared. 

As for the personnel stuff, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to let Jamie take her under her wing. At first she’d been taken aback for the proposition of the whole movie deal. It seemed so fast and well, mercenary, as if this incident was a tragedy that shouldn’t go to waste. Someone was being exploited, but she wasn’t sure if it was Sierra or Heather. 

  


* * *

  


Detective Edward Ahn had always trusted his instincts.

He’d heard the stories. You could never trust Hollywood people. This was one case that would never sit right with him.

The streetlights seemed to flicker as the car rolled down Figueroa and turned on Olympic. 

It wasn’t often he personally followed up on tip calls, but in this case he was willing in make and exception. The Heather Anderson case was an embarrassment to the whole department, but especially to him. They had been wrong about the victim, but Ed Ahn had an unnerving certainty that there was something off about the actress and her entourage. The sudden disappearance of her old director and the apparent accidental demise of her most aggressive paparazzi clinger had put him on edge.

When her girlfriend (now ex, apparently, according to her) had called his personal number, sounding scared and desperate, he didn’t hesitate in agreeing to a meetup. 

The parking lot where Tracy asked to meet was poorly lit, but as he stopped the car he could make out a figure in the darkness. He got out of the car.

One step forward. His head swiveled when he thought he heard someone make a movement somewhere beyond the car. He saw no one.

The person ahead of him moved slightly, a bored twist of their hips with hands shoved deep in their pockets. Petite figure. Long hair. It had to be her. 

He took another step, but despite the crunching of his shoes, his presence remained unacknowledged. 

“Detective Ahn.” 

He turned. The voice that called out to him came from behind. It didn’t belong to the woman he’d spoken with on the phone. This voice was softer, more familiar. 

A chill ran down his spine. His gut told him he should run for it.

“Ms. LaBeau?”

The cord wrapped around his neck faster than his brain could register the shock. Pain crept in slowly as he processed the reality of the trap. His hands reached up to claw uselessly at his throat, his entire body bucking and struggling to pull away. He flailed around for his gun, but someone had taken it. Was it just one pair of hands that pulled him deeper into the darkness, or was it two, or three? 

_Giggling._ He could still hear them even as his vision went black. They were having fun with this. 

He should have listened to his gut.


End file.
